


In Too Deep

by Anger_and_Apathy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Future, Anxiety, College, Denial, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Friendship, Gas Lighting, Incest, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Neurodiversity, Nonbinary Character, Other, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Punk Characters, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anger_and_Apathy/pseuds/Anger_and_Apathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After not hearing from him in years, Arthur is contacted by a former abuser. Knowing it’s a bad idea, Arthur agrees to meet in person. He needs answers. He thinks he can handle it this time. But it’s not too long before he realizes that he’s in over his head. Somewhere along the way he meets Merlin, raises hell, and graduates law school.T</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment to keep me going y'all

       It’s three in the morning when Arthur gets the call. The blare of his ring tone jerks him from sleep, and he rolls over blearily, cursing as he palms his phone off of the night stand. He starts talking before he accepts the call, and his voice cuts in somewhere mid-sentence,  
       

“-Jesus, Gwaine, I’m not picking you up again if-”  
       

“Hello Arthur.”  
        

Just those two words in that smooth, cold voice and Arthur loses track of everything. He feels his body hum like a live wire, but his mind is blank. He clutches at his pillow without feeling it, vision going black at the edges, heart pounding.  
        

“What is it?” he rasps, “What do you want?” and there’s a light chuckle over the line that sends shivers running down his whole body.  
       

“To see you,” comes the answer, “Can’t a man contact an old friend?”  
      

Arthur answers immediately,  
      

“We’re not friends,” he says, but his hands are shaking.  
      

“Of course,” Comes the response, “Whatever makes you comfortable.”  
      

Arthur laughs. He can’t help himself. It tastes bitter.  
     

“Right,” he says, “sure. Of course.” There’s a pounding at his temple and he raises his hand to his forehead, digging his fingers into his skin. The next words catch him completely off guard.  
      

“Meet me tomorrow.”  
      

Arthur flinches,  
      

“Drop dead.”  
      

There’s a faint crackle over the line, and for a second Arthur thinks he’s listening to empty air. Then the answer comes.  
      

“I’m in town for the next two weeks. I’ll be at the Starbucks on 4th at noon. I’ll see you there.”  
      

Arthur tenses.  
      

“Go fuck yourself,” he snarls. But the line is dead.

      Arthur is allowed to touch himself in the shower. He has to undress slowly, lean against the wall to strip off his pants, slowly ease his shirt over his arms. His bicep aches a little as he reaches down to pull off his socks, and he thinks about telling Gwaine that they should go easier at the gym tomorrow. Then he’s under the spray and there’s water sliding down his face and he feels like he can breathe again. His shaking hands clutch at his wet skin, and his breath’s push out of his chest like bullets from a gun. He ends up with his forehead pressed against the glass and his palms sweeping circles through the steam, eyes squeezed shut and mouth gaping. He feels the steam on the back of his throat, in his lungs, in the drag of his blood through his veins. Feels it in his bones.  


Now that he’s under, he starts to remember. Mordred. Mordred throwing rocks at his window, Mordred calling him in the middle of the night. The water is hot on his skin, sheets of steam filling the bathroom. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and sees late-night emails, remembers poetry and cheap liquor and broken promises. Remembers running through dark woods and staring up at starry skies, back pressed into cold stone. Shakes his head. Shakes it off. Doesn’t think about anything.

       He stays in for as long as he can, until the water runs cold and he’s forced wet and shivering back out onto the tiles. His phone is still waiting for him when he goes back into his bedroom, half-covered by the sheets. He picks it up and thumbs back into the call log, and quickly saves the unknown number to a new contact. He doesn’t go back to sleep. He paces his loft and cleans his kitchen. Watches the sun rise through curtained windows and cranks the volume on his I-pod up as high it will go. Misses his classes. Calls in sick.

       Then its 12:00 and he’s on the sidewalk in front of Starbucks with his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoody and his feet planted, feeling cold air on his face and fire in his lungs. He rubs his eyes. Draws in a deep breath. Nowhere to go but forward. The door feels heavy against his palms as he pushes it open, and he tries to focus on that, on the chill of the metal beneath his fingers and the glossy linoleum beneath his feet. He listens to the chatter of the patrons. The soft hiss and whir of the machines. Wills himself not to turn around. Not to look, not to- and then all of the air goes out of him because Mordred is just there, sitting at a circular table with his legs crossed at the ankles and his sleeves pushed up passed his elbows.

       He has his face turned to the side, hasn’t seen Arthur yet, and Arthur takes a shuddering breath and strides forward. He’s still a few feet away when Mordred turns. His gaze flickers up over Arthur’s body as if he doesn’t quite recognize him, and then their eyes lock, and Arthur feels it like a punch to the stomach. He feels almost stunned. It’s his momentum more than anything that propels the words from his body,  
        

“What do you want?” he spits, and the women at the next table half-turns in her chair, glancing over her shoulder towards them.  
       

Mordred lifts his hands from the table, palms out.  
       

“Easy,” he says softly, “Easy.”  
Mordred’s eyes are dark, his head tilted, and Arthur stares. He’s prepared for so many things. He isn’t prepared for this. For Mordred to look so achingly familiar, to feel the years between them wash away. He thought he’d look older, look different. Mordred’s hair is a little shorter, his jaw a little stronger. But it’s him and he’s somehow here, and for a second it’s like he never left. Arthur feels his legs tremble, and he looks away. Mordred’s eyes are hot on the side on his face.  
        

“What?” Arthur asks, quieter this time, “What do you want?”  
        

“I just wanted to see you.”  
       

The room spins.  
       

“You’ve seen me,” he says, “now what?” And Mordred raises one slim eyebrow, expression impossibly calm.  
       

“How are you?”  
       

Arthur hears the air roar in his ears, feels sweat prick the back of his neck.  
       

“Fine,” he says hoarsely, “I’m fine.”  
       

Mordred shakes his head,  
      

 “God, kid,” he laughs, and Arthur feels his blood run cold.  
      

“Don’t call me that,” he bites out, and for a second they make eye contact and it seems like it’s coming. Whatever it is. But then Mordred just smiles, and glances down.  
      

“Sure,” he says, “sure,” he leans slightly back in his chair, eyes skating Arthur’s body, and Arthur feels his stomach flip. Mordred nods his head, tilting his chin. Arthur can see the faint scar hooked over his jawline. A thin, white crescent where he fell against the counter in his old apartment. Arthur remembers the yell and the hot, red blood, and drinking all night instead of going to the emergency room. “It’s hard to get used to you like this. You look so grown up.”  
      

His hand lifts off of the table, fingers flexing, and then he’s pushing a coffee cup over towards Arthur. Arthur sees his own name written on the side. Mordred’s smile is almost rueful, and there’s something painfully unnerving about it. Something almost normal. Arthur’s back feels stiff, his spine too tight. Muscles coiled. He’s still standing awkwardly next to the chair, staring down at the table, so he sits quickly, fingers clamping around the cup just a little too tight.  
      

“Thanks,” he says automatically, and Mordred smiles again,  
      

“I hoped you’d come,” he says.  
      

“Did you?”  
      

Mordred rolls his eyes,  
      

“I did,” he says, “I’m not lying to you Arthur.”  
      

“Well that’s new, at least. I like your haircut, by the way, that’s different too isn’t it?”  
      

Mordred sighs, leans back in his seat,  
      

“You are insufferable,” he says, and Arthur laughs.  
      

“Well,” he says, “Some things never change.”  
      

Mordred stands abruptly, reaching down to smooth the creases from his slacks,  
      

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” he says, “Why don’t you compose yourself?”

      Arthur watches him walk away. He waits for a few minutes, fingers drumming against the table, lips thinned. The hand clutching his coffee is shaking, and he makes himself draw in a few deep breaths before pushing his chair back from the table. The screech of the legs sounds loud in his ears, and he sees people turning out of the corners of his eyes, but he’s already moving forward, heart beating and hands shaking.  
      

Mordred is washing his hands at the sink when Arthur shoves open the door, but he turns at the sound, leaning his back up against the porcelain.  
      

“I thought we had rules about this,” he remarks, “don’t we have rules about this?”  
      

“Shut up,” Arthur snaps, and Mordred falls silent, mouth turned up at the corners. Arthur can hear the tremor in his own voice and braces himself against the doorway, “Why are you here?”  
      

Mordred wets his lips, tilts his head and inhales,  
       

“I wanted to see you,” he says simply, and Arthur feels his blood freeze,  
      

“Liar,” he hisses, and Mordred shrugs, turns away.  
       

“Believe what you want,” he says.  
       

Arthur watches Mordred’s shoulders shift beneath his jacket, and remembers driving down back roads with the windows down, music playing loud through shitty speakers. Remembers the taste of lies on his tongue and sweat on his lips, bug spray and stale cigarette smoke. Laughing into Mordred’s mouth and the shatter of breaking glass. Mordred is still looking in the mirror, and their eyes meet in the reflection.  
       

“That’s it?” Arthur asks, and his throat feels tight, “Five years of nothing and you just wanted to see me? That’s what you’re gonna go with? I mean,” he laughs and it hurts, “it’s not like you didn’t have time to come up with something better.”  
       

“Well,” Mordred’s chin is cocked at a very specific angle, and Arthur knows what’s coming, “I do have business in the area.”  
       

“Good,” Arthur says, “That’s better. Now what? You were in the neighborhood?”  
       

“No,” Mordred says calmly, and drops his gaze. Arthur feels the blood boil in his veins. Feels his chest tighten and his lungs catch.  
       

“Look at me,” he says.  
       

Mordred turns slowly, movements smooth and even.  
       

“What?” he asks, and Arthur gets a little spike of heat up the back of his head and takes a quick step forward,  
       

“You know what,” he snarls.  
       

Then he’s pushing close into Mordred’s space, backing him further into the sink, feeling his breath on his face and realizing he’s miscalculated somewhere because Mordred is right here. They’re breathing in the same air, and Arthur can feel the lines where their chests meet and he is not prepared for this.  


“What?” Mordred asks, voice low.

      Arthur kisses him like a challenge, just steps forward and goes all in. Mordred’s mouth is hot against his, and Arthur’s hand isn’t strong enough to be bluffing like this. Then Mordred’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, and Arthur loses track of everything but the slide of his lips and the press of his teeth. He gets a hand hooked in the front of Mordred’s jeans, the other gripped in his hair, and Mordred hisses and bites at his neck, tongue swiping out across the bruise. Arthur groans and then they’re rocking against each other, fingers scrabbling over bare skin, gasping into each other’s mouths and pulling at each other’s clothes.  


Then he’s pushing out of the door, tugging the collar of his hoody back into place, breathing hard. He sees Mordred follow him from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn around. His face feels flushed, and there’s a women at the register who looks over at him accusingly, brows raised. Arthur feels her eyes on him all the way out the door. He rubs his back across his swollen mouth. Feels hot and shameful and 17 again.

      He doesn’t go home. Just sets out blindly towards the skyline, feet moving beneath his body. He starts to get texts when he hits the pier, but ignores them. Wraps his fingers tight around themselves and feels the buzz of his cellphone through his jacket pocket. The sky is overcast, gray and cloudy, and Arthur points himself towards the water and loses track of time.  
He comes back around several hours later, sitting on a salt-stained bench on the edge of the board walk. The waves lap up against the support pillars below him, and he stares at the pale reflection of the sun across the water for a long moment before getting to his feet and starting the long walk home. His phone starts to ring the minute he reaches his apartment. Arthur pulls it out of his pocket and stares at it for a second, heart in his throat, before thumbing the accept call button. It’s halfway to his ear when a familiar voice cuts across the line.  
      

“Did he call you?”  
      

Arthur sighs,  
      

“Hello Morgana,” he says, “How are you? How was New York?”  
      

He can hear her eyes roll across the line.  
      

“New York was fine,” she says, “I just got in this morning, and I had about a dozen messages waiting for me. Christ, this is a nightmare.”  
      

Arthur lifts his head, stares up at the ceiling,  
     

“Yeah,” he says, “Seems that way.”  
     

There’s silence on the other end, and he can hear her moving around, shifting something.  
      

“He called you, didn’t he?”  
      

“Where are you?”  
      

“Arthur.”   
      

He rubs at his eyes,  
     

“Yeah,” he says, “last night. Well, this morning actually. Around 3am.”  
      

Morgana swears,  
      

“What an asshole,” she says, then, “Hang on.” There’s silence for a second and he can hear her typing something. Then her voice cuts back in and she says, “Are you still at your same apartment? I’ll pick you up in five.”  
       

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut,  
      

“Morgana,” he says, “you can’t just disappear for months and then show up at my doorstep.  
      

“We’re family,” she tells him, “Of course I can,” and then there’s nothing but the dial tone.  
       

Morgana arrives on his doorstep exactly four minutes later, and they end up sitting on the curb outside of a painfully trendy café, drinking black coffee and quietly chain-smoking. A mother skirts by with her tiny daughter, and Arthur averts his eyes, embarrassed. Morgana just lights another cigarette, blowing smoke into the hazy evening air. Behind their heads, the family’s footsteps fade.  
        

“So,” she says after a beat, tipping her head back in repose, “What did the bastard want?”  
       

Arthur doesn’t miss a step.  
       

“What does he ever want?” he asks, and she gives a startled snort of laughter and passes her cigarette over to him. Their fingers brush against each other for a second, and Arthur has to force himself not to jerk his hand away. He changes tactics quickly, pulling smoke into his lungs, “How was the trip?”  
        

Morgana rolls her gleaming eyes,  
        

“Oh, you know,” she says placidly, “Business empires won’t run themselves.”  
        

“But somehow you still have the time to sit in the gutter and smoke cigarettes with me?”  
        

Morgana purses her lips,  
       

“You are my favorite cousin,” she says, “Don’t be a brat.”  
       

“Of course,” Arthur tells her, “Because the competition is so high.” They lapse into silence, and Arthur studies her, the dark sweep of her lashes and the high lines of her cheeks. She’s still in her business clothes, black cat eyes and blood red lipstick, but has taken off her blazer. Thin crescents of sweat darken the gauzy fabric beneath her arms. 

“You look good,” he tells her, and she tilts her head at him, curtains of silky black hair spilling over her shoulders,  
       

“And you look dreadful,” she says, “What have you been doing with yourself?”  
        

Arthur shifts under her gaze, feeling the bruises beneath his eyes and the blood beneath his skin. He reaches up to rub at his neck. Sees Morgana’s eyes flick over the bruise, and pulls his collar a little further up, glances down.  
       

“Oh you know,” he says, “Just the usual. Keeping busy.”  
        

Morgana is watching him,  
       

“How are your studies?” she asks,  
       

“Fine,” he says, “The last push is kind of tough but, you know, I’m getting through it.”  
      

 “Good,” she says, takes a drag of her cigarette. The orange glow of the embers stands out sharp against the darkening sky. Arthur stares into the heart of the tiny flame, watches it flare up as Morgana breathes in, and pictures her drawing light into the world,        

“That’s good. You’re worth it Arthur.” He snorts and she catches his gaze, “I mean it. Don’t give up on yourself.”  
       

Arthur leans back on his elbows,  
      

“Wow,” he says dryly, “Didn’t you drop out of your Master’s program to stage a corporate coup and take over the world?”  
Morgana taps her mouth  
       

“A successful coup,” she points out, “That’s an important part.”  
       

“So are you really trying to tell me to be a good boy and keep my head down and-”  
       

Morgana frowns at him,  
       

“I’m not telling you to finish your degree,” she says tartly, “I’m telling you not to give up on yourself. Whatever you’re doing, be on your side.”  
       

Arthur looks down, looks away.  
       

“Yeah, okay,” he says. Tries to believe it.  
       

Morgana gives him a tiny smile,  
       

“That’s better,” she says, “Now what have you been doing since I’ve been away? Not pinning too horribly, I trust?”  
       

Arthur leans back against the curb, tilts his head and breathes smoke at the sky,  
       

“Oh you know,” he tells her, “Just the usual. Collecting locks of your hair and building a shrine in your honor.”  
       

Morgana’s red mouth curves in a smile.  
      

“I know that that’s a joke, but I’m just so pleased,” she says, bringing the cigarette back up to her lips, “It’s good to be adored.”  
       

Arthur laughs, gently shoves her shoulder,  
      

“Oh my god,” he says, “No, that is not adoration. That is some next-level unhealthy shit,” he looks down, cuts her a sideways glance, “Look, I know that I give you a hard time but you really are my favorite person. Please don’t fall for anyone who collects pieces of your hair.”  
        

Morgana regards him coolly, and he’s still smiling when she says,  
        

“You haven’t said what he wanted.”  
        

Arthur feels the smile slip off of his face. Turns the question around.  
        

“What did he want from you?” he asks, and Morgana shrugs,  
        

“He didn’t call me.”  
        

“You said you had messages.”  
       

Morgana shakes her head, gleaming hair falling down her back,  
        

“Mordred doesn’t talk to me,” she says. The dying sun gleams off her eyes, turning them gold in the twilight, “They were from people warning me he was back in town. But you said that he called you?”  
         

Arthur sometimes wishes that Morgana wasn’t quite as smart as she is. Sometimes he wishes she was smarter.  
        

“Yeah,” he says, “He called. We didn’t talk for long. I think he just wanted to blow off steam. You know how he gets.”  
Morgana nods, sighs a little and shakes her head. Looks out across the empty sidewalk,  
         

“I do indeed know how he gets,” she says. They’re quiet for a second, listening to the light buzz of nightfall and the far off sounds of sirens. Then Morgana asks, “Are you okay?”  
         

Arthur thinks of Mordred’s hands on him, thinks of hot summer nights and bad decisions. Feels the burn in the pit of his stomach and the ache in his heart. His mouth on his skin.  
         

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “Yeah I’m fine.”  
          

Morgana is still looking at him, black hair outlined by the setting sun.  
        

“Are you going to see him?” she asks.   
        

Arthur shakes his head, draws smoke and chemicals deep into his lungs. Feels his fingers tremble.  
        

“Why would I?” He lies, “We don’t have anything to talk about.”

        They fall silent, and the night draws quickly in around them. Arthur stares down the sidewalk at the streetlight at the end of the block, watches it run through its colors. He thinks about asking Morgana more about work, but can’t quite figure out a way to move his mouth. He works it around the cigarette, focuses on smoking and breathing and trying not to cry. The smoke stings his eyes and darkness presses in, sky changing above their heads. Pretty soon Morgana has to leave to go to a staff meeting or a kick-boxing class or whatever it is that she does in her off time. Arthur watches her car pull away from the side walk, and raises his hand in farewell. He sees her smile in the rearview mirror, and waits until she’s turned the corner before turning away. He goes home and gets drunk. It’s been a long day. He passes out before 9pm, wakes up with a headache and a hangover and someone pounding on the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is on the shorter side. More to follow.  
> (Thank you so much to everyone)

      Arthur stumbles to his feet and knocks an empty bottle to the ground. The curtains are still drawn across the windows, but even the heavy fabric can’t block out the bright spill of sunlight flooding the apartment. Squinting against the glare, Arthur peers through his pounding headache to the clock on the microwave, green lights glaring 4:00pm. Somewhere in the background, the knocking seems to be growing louder. Someone is shouting. He thinks someone is shouting? The traffic outside his window sounds like screaming, so it’s hard to tell. Arthur rubs a hand over his eyes and for a moment the world grows red and dark and peaceful again. Then there’s a click and a   jangle and Gwaine bursts through and front door, back-pack dangling dangerously off of one massive shoulder.  
      “All Hail our fearless leader!” he crows, and Arthur winces, lurches forward a few steps into the kitchen.  
      “Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, and then has to lean heavily against the counter and focus only on breathing and not throwing up.          Gwaine pauses in the doorway, looking Arthur sympathetically up and down as he shoulders inelegantly out of his back-pack. His grin loses some of its edge, softening to something simple and affectionate. Arthur feels his gaze on his face, in the heat prickling at his hairline, the flush across his collar. He must look like literal death, because Gwaine’s tone shifts into something nauseatingly close to apologetic,  
       “Damn,” he mutters, stepping forward, “Somebody got you good, man.”  
       Arthur forces himself to throw up his head, inhale quick through his nose and stare him down,  
       “I got me good,” he snaps, “And I mean it, don’t call me that.”  
       Gwaine falters, raises his hands in front of himself a little below chest height, palms out. It should be placating, but Arthur’s eyes lock with Gwaine’s and he remembers Gwaine soft and urgent with his palms out hey, Arthur, I’m not touching you, okay? Arthur, you’re good. I’m all the way over here, man. You’re okay…. just take your time, and he lets out a breath and lets his gaze drop and lets it go. “Sorry,” he says, after a moment. The lights buzz dully above their heads. Arthur feels it in his bones.  
       Gwaine reaches back to shut the door behind him.  
      “S’okay,” he says easily. The deadbolt clicks back into place, and Arthur watches the casual set of Gwaine’s sloping shoulders and the tight pull of his shirt across his torso and feels achingly envious of things he cannot quiet describe. Gwaine gives his hair a small toss, turns back with a chuckle and a smile and an easy, “It was either that or the prodigal son returns- and don’t give me that look, I know you hate your father.”  
       Arthur sighs, sinks back down to rest his elbows against the counter,  
      “I don’t hate my father,” he mumbles, but the disagreement rings flat in the stale air. Arthur’s fingers shake subtly as he presses them carefully to his temples, kneading gingerly at the ache. Gwaine glances towards him and he straightens on instinct. Clenches his fists against the counter and pushes his voice out of his body, “And if you have a key, why do you need to knock?”  
      Gwaine rolls his eyes  
      “Common decency,” he remarks, leaning forward to snag one of the empty bottles from the counter. The glass catches the light as he spins it between his palms, throwing stained shadows against the walls, “so what are we celebrating?” he asks, “Did you finish that paper?”  
Arthur feels his own smile freeze. He recovers quickly, averts his eyes.  
       “Nah,” he says, and yeah, glances back up at Gwaine with a quick pull of his mouth and a short laugh and “I haven’t really started,” and watches his expression reflect in his friend’s sympathetic eye roll, and small smile. Feels safe. For now.  
      “Ugh,” Gwaine commiserates, peeling at the label in front of him, “I know, right? Things are really coming down to it. So,” he spins the bottle again, “do you want to come out with us tonight? Blow off some stress”  
      Arthur rubs at his eyes,  
     “Might,” he says, “What’s the plan?”  
     Gwaine shrugs,  
     “Just some of the boys and I. Thought we’d check out the new place downtown, maybe watch the game.”  
     “Cool, cool.”  
      Gwaine is watching him,  
     “You’ll come?” he asks, and Arthur doesn’t meet his eyes.  
     “I’ll try,” he says, and Gwaine laughs quick and bright and too loud in his small kitchen.  
     “Bullshit,” he says, and Arthur has never really been able to place this sudden kind of delight, “I know that’s Arthurian code for no fuckin’ way,” he dips his chin, voice dropping, “What’s up with you, man? Everything-”  
      “Yeah,” Arthur makes himself nod through the low throb at his temple, “Had a bad night, that’s all. Might need to sleep it off, you know?”  
      “Dunno,” Gwaine muses, leaning closer, “Haven’t had a night like that in a while.”  
His expression is inquisitive, searching, and Arthur forces himself keep his shoulders straight and his hands away from his throat.  
      “What’d you want Gwaine?” he asks instead.  
       Gwaine shoots him a lazy smile,  
       “Only your unencumbered happiness…..” he murmurs, “……and Lance’s history notes. I know you’re not finished with them, but you’re clearly a genius- future lawyer and all that- and some of us need all the help we can get.”  
Arthur stretches his hands over his head, working the kinks out of his back. He feels about a thousand years old.  
       “So are you,” he points out, and Gwaine laughs and ducks his head, one tousled curl falling charmingly into his eyes,  
       “Yeah,” he says, “But you’re like a real one, you know. I just let you all talk me into it,” he shrugs a little helplessly and spreads his hands in front of him, “Kind of along for the ride.”   
       “Fine,” Arthur tells him. The notes are stuck to the refrigerator, and he pulls them off and passes them over to Gwaine, “I’ve highlighted some of the important sections already, and added a portion on the importance of the Miranda warning.”  
        Gwaine tips his head in a salute,  
        “Cheers,” he says easily, “So what’ve you been up to? You kind of vanished yesterday. Weren’t we supposed to do a work out or something?”  
       “Yeah,” Arthur says faintly, clears his throat. Gwaine is already reading Lance’s notes and doesn’t notice, “Something came up. Family stuff.”  
        Gwaine raises his head to give a sympathetic frown,  
      “Ouch,” he says, “Sucks.”  
       Arthur makes himself shrug,  
      “It’s fine,” he says, “Just the usual, you know. My dad…”  
       Gwaine nods, heaving himself up from the counter.  
      “That’s my cue,” he says, “I’ll let you re-cooperate. Promise you’ll think about coming out tonight?”  
       They’re at the door and Arthur nods, mechanical.  
       “I’ll try,’ he says.  
       Gwaine pulls back and gives him a charming grin,  
      “Arthur Pendragon,” he announces, “You are a prince among men.”  
       Then he’s out the door and Arthur’s heart aches.


	3. Chapter 3

       Arthur doesn’t go out that night. He doesn’t go out the next night either, just stays holed up in his apartment, moving between rooms in a haze. He sleeps for only brief, restless periods, eats very little. After the first few days his body adjusts, curls in around the hollow space in his chest and relearns hardness. He’s been here before.

     The week passes out from under him. It doesn’t take much for Arthur to return here, to this tired, foggy place where his body fades and his mind wanders. He could be 17 again. Could be 14 or 12, or any age in between. He closes his eyes and lets the hours pass, lets himself sink slowly into the quiet bliss of oblivion. It’s a blessing when he finally stops feeling hungry. His body grows light and whimsical, his thoughts flit across the surface of his mind like skipping stones, never really making contact. He opens his eyes in the middle of the night, stares at the dark walls and feels like he could pass right through them. Knows he’s leaving ghosts behind. There isn’t much to do in the apartment. Arthur moves through the living room and the sky darkens outside, stares at the ceiling as the stars come out. Opens his mouth and breaths in through his nose. Wills his heart to calm. His skin prickles beneath his clothes. He’s lonely without ever feeling quite alone.

      Thursday night he finally answers his phone, and makes reluctant plans to go out with Morgana, because he’s normal and fine, and absolutely not spinning out of control. She picks him up at his apartment wearing an uncomfortably sexy black dress (long-sleeved, high-necked and back-less), a pair of what he’s sure are his favorite docs, and a nude lipstick that she helps him smear carefully across his lips when his hands shake. He grudgingly hands her the tube. Tells himself he’s out of practice, but the lie is lackluster. He’s never been good at this kind of thing, not even before. It’s a funny thing to think of now, in this desolate home he’s made for himself, but he’d rather be here and quietly killing himself than anywhere else in the world and this thought goes to his head more than the expensive wine Morgana’s pours for him. His chest burns beneath his binder, and he feels dizzy and daring and reckless. It makes him grin against the glare of the lights, glance up to meet his own eyes in the mirror. The shade of the lipstick makes him wonderfully pale and dead-eyed, and Morgana smiles at him in the reflection as she dusts a light shimmer of silver across her pallid cheeks. Music spills from the built-in speakers in the kitchen, and her voice fills the walls of his apartment like the dancing candle flames, loud and soothing at the same time.       They have drinks at his kitchen counter, and Arthur is already fatigued and faint from hunger as Morgana clicks sparkling nails against the granite and sips gracefully from her glass. His head aches and he hears her talk about work and New York and his father without really listening. Watches her invisible lips pull across her teeth. Aches.

      They’re leaving the apartment when Morgana gets a critical look in her eye,

       “No,” she orders, “Come here,” and tugs him into the little half-bathroom off of the hall. The light above their heads is too bright, and it dances in Morgana’s hair and across her fare skin like she’s just been dredged from the sea. Arthur lets her pull his chin down towards her, lets her turn his face to each side as her fingers dance across his jaw, down his neck to the base of his throat, lets her dab something sparkling beneath his eyes and reapply his lipstick. Feels the scratch of her nails at the base of his neck and feels nothing at all. Eventually Arthur’s neck starts to ache, and he gives up and kneels before her as she meticulously massages product into his hair. The tiles are hard beneath his knees, and Morgana’s nails scrape blissfully across his scalp. Arthur lets his eyes fall shut and his head tip forward, bows his head before her and feels somehow redeemed.

     They go to a painfully cool, artfully under-lit club and dance too closely with too many strangers, and Arthur’s head hurts and his heart aches and he loves every shinning, searing minute of it. He gets lost in the music and the crowd and the thump of the base through his bones, and just lets his head fall back and himself fall apart. The world comes apart in a haze of heat and hot lights, and Arthur is sweating and surrounded by strangers and its sin and salvation and good in ways it shouldn’t be.

     The song changes and strangers flood the floor. Arthur sways against the tide, lets himself be pushed forward and pushed backwards and pushed around a little. He feels someone press up against his back, feels hands come up to grab his hips. For a second he leans back and leans into it, clenches his teeth and keeps his eyes locked forward. He feels heat gather at his shoulders and breathe ghost across his ear. Then Morgana loops her wrists around his neck and pulls him back into the crowd, and Arthur follows and lets himself be wrapped in the smell of her hair and the warmth of her skin. The scent of lavender and taste of salt. His head spins.

        “I need air!” he yells over the music, and ends up outside on the abandoned patio, breathing in night air and second-hand smoke. Arthur leans against the fence, spreads his palms across the railing, and stares up at the purpled sky. He can feel the world turning around him, the stars wheeling above his head. He grips the railing tight, feels his fingers nudge into something small and plastic and picks it up without thinking, turns it over and over in his fingers. It feels good in his grip, light and smooth and solid, and Arthur presses the pad of his thumb to the sharp point, scores a groove into his skin. Someone else comes out onto the patio, a group of laughing patrons. 

     Someone knocks into Arthur, clutches his shoulder briefly mumbling an apology, and Arthur’s head snaps up and his eyes come open. The group is already stumbling off, glancing over their shoulders at Arthur. Arthur looks away. Looks down. Sees what’s in his hand like a splash of cold water. Sees the toothpick in the shape of a sword, feels hands on his neck and a voice in his ear, in his bones. _Oh Arthur, you were born to be king_.

      He tries to shake it off. Tries to go back inside and loose himself in the music and Morgana and the magic of the night, but he’s been heading towards the bad side of drunk all night, and his vision tilts and he’s gone and he knows it. They end up at another bar, packed against other strangers who are out too late. Morgana throws her head back laughing and dances slow and dirty with one of the off-duty bartenders, pressed up close and murmuring into each other, and Arthur feels flushed and hot and too tight in his skin. He clutches the tiny plastic sword tight in his hand, watching the flashing lights and twisting bodies and wills the blade to slice into his palm, throws his head back and grinds his hips down and lets the music hit him full in the face like smoke, lets it go to his head.

      Then he’s outside in the alley throwing up, and Morgana’s got one hand at his forehead and the other rubbing slow circles into his back, and Arthur clenches his palms and his jaw and his eyes tight shut and lets the darkness move in for a moment. He comes to the black asphalt and Morgana’s palm in the center of his back and a voice in his ear that isn’t hers saying,

      “Hey, babe, c’mon. Stay with us, drink this,” in a tone that he recognizes, but doesn’t know how. He gets to his feet and spills water down his aching throat. Ends up sitting and shaking on the curb with Morgana’s silent dance partner while Morgana hails a cab. The stranger who isn’t a strangers smiles at him. Arthur doesn’t meet her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

     “You’re an asshole,” Arthur slurs, when Mordred answers on the second ring, head dropping back against the bricks. The night air is sharp and cold on his face, Morgana’s taillights a blurry beat at the end of the street that blink once, twice, and then turn the corner.  
Mordred’s voice sounds rough and slow like sleep, and the simple, gentle drag of the syllables sets Arthur’s pulse spiking.  
     “What?” Mordred rasps, then after a beat “Arthur? Where are you?” there’s a rustling sound, then a soft thud and Mordred’s a little out of breath, “hang on, stay- fuck. Just, stay wherever you are, I’m coming to pick you up.”  
Arthur rolls his eyes to the havens,  
     “I don’t need you to pick me up,” He snaps “I just got dropped off.”  
     Mordred’s voice is still a little deep, a little guarded, a dark hum across the pavement and the crisp night air.  
     “Where?”  
     Arthur breathes in the cold, stamps his feet on the pavement.  
     “Home,” he says, and his tongue doesn’t catch in the edges of the word, so he offers “was out with Morgana, dancing and… dancing. Mostly dancing.”  
     “Oh,” Mordred says, and his voice relaxes into a languid laugh, “that woman is a devil.” He’s silent for a moment, and Arthur stares up at the stars and listens to the slow sound of breathing on the other end of the line. Then, “Did you have fun?”  
     Arthur shoves the frozen fingers into the pocket of his coat.  
     “Threw up in an alley and had to be taken home.”  
     Mordred chuckles,  
     “Sounds like Morgana,” he says, then, “You’re really safe, then?”  
     Arthur waits a moment.  
     “I don’t know,” he says.  
     “Arthur?”  
     The sword is still sharp in the center of his hand and Arthur is amazed he’s held onto it for this long. He closes his fingers into a tight fist and hikes the phone up further beneath his ear.  
     “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just drunk and,” his voice drops off and there’s silence on the other end of the phone and Arthur can’t quite find the words for how he’s feeling, “Drunk,” he says again, “Very very drunk.”  
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and for a moment Arthur thinks that Mordred isn’t going to respond. Then he says,

     “I’m coming over.”  
     Arthur feels his stomach drop.  
     “You don’t have to,” he says, quick like somehow that will help, “I’m really fine. I shouldn’t have called.”  
     Mordred heaves a delicate sigh,  
     “I’m glad you did,” he says, “I’ll see you in ten,” and the line goes dead.  
     Arthur stares at the phone for a minute before slowly tucking it back into the pocket of his jacket. The night is still cold on his face and he fumbles his keys in the lock before pushing the door open. The apartment is clean. It’s always clean, but Arthur fusses over the grease on the stove and wipes the counters down with acidic-smelling cleaning wipes. All too soon there’s a knock on the door, and Arthur brushes his hands across his jeans and moves to open it. Mordred is framed in the doorway, black curls spilling over his forehead and into his eyes. He looks suddenly softer than he had at the coffee shop and Arthur sucks in a breath and feels a little like drowning.  
     Then Mordred is moving further, into his space, and Arthur backs up until he hits the counter, then holds his ground. The kiss comes slow at first. Gentle. So, so gentle, and Arthur had forgotten that Mordred could move this way. He takes a slow step forward, easing off of the counter and Mordred moves back just a little, bringing his hand up to cup the side of Arthur’s jaw. They stand like this for a moment. Kissing quietly beneath the pulse of the kitchen lighting, and Arthur’s head swims and his heart aches and he pushes himself forward towards memories of hot summer nights and cheap whiskey. Remembers Mordred’s hands on him beneath a star-spilled sky, laughing young and arrogant and so breathtakingly beautiful that it had taken Arthur everything he had not to reach out and touch him. Here in the kitchen, Mordred’s hands move slowly over his body, pushing at the fabric of his jacket before Arthur steps back and shrugs it off.  
     Mordred is looking at him then. Wide eyed and a little out of breath and Arthur shuts his eyes and just breathes. Mordred’s voice sounds from somewhere very close.  
     “You look good,” he says, and Arthur feels his hands come up to rest against the flat of his chest and bites out a laugh.  
     “It’s fake,” he says, “I haven’t gotten the surgery.”  
     Mordred’s voice is soft.  
     “That isn’t what I meant.”  
     And Arthur is drunk and he’s tired and he’s done talking, but Mordred’s hands don’t move away from his chest, so Arthur breathes out and opens his eyes. They really are standing very close together, and he can see the faint scar trailing down Mordred’s jaw line, and it’s that more than anything that makes him say,  
     “I can’t pay for it anyway.”  
     Mordred looks at him.  
     “You can’t pay for it,” he says, flat and toneless like he cannot fathom a world in which people can’t afford such trivial things as top surgery. “Surely your father-”  
     Arthur bristles at the mention of the name.  
     “My father won’t pay for shit,” he says, “Shut up and fuck me already.”  
     Mordred startles. Then he smiles,  
     “Your wish is my command.”  
     His next kiss is not gentle. It’s hard edges and sharp teeth and Arthur leans into it if only because it feels so familiar. Then Mordred’s hands leave his chest and he picks Arthur up with an ease that he should be envious of. Arthur wraps his legs around Mordred’s waist and kisses him like he cannot stop. They’re both breathless when he pulls away and Mordred gives him a long look before saying.  
     “Bedroom.”  
     “Down the hall,” Arthur tells him, and then they’re slamming back against the wall. Mordred bites at the base of his neck, working his way slowly back up to his mouth and Arthur moans and shoves at the door until it swings open. Then they’re at the bed and Arthur is pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it up until the fabric snags on his binder and he swears and tugs harder before Mordred’s hands come up to cover his own.  
     “Let me,” he says, and Arthur feels the night air brush cold across his bare skin. Mordred’s fingers fumble with the velcro and      Arthur pulls back, getting a hand up between them saying,  
     “I will fucking kill you.”  
     Mordred’s eyes are kind.  
     “Easy now,” he says, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”  
     And Arthur swears and shoves harder,  
     “I’m not fucking kidding,” he says.  
     Mordred looks at him.  
     “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Arthur.”  
     Arthur’s face flames.  
     “I never said I did,” he snaps.  
     Mordred looks as if he’s about to say something else, but he just steps back and eases out of his jacket, shucking off his own shirt in one fluid motion. Then his hands drop down towards his belt and Arthur thinks very urgently of ending this. Of getting up right now and walking out of the door. Of putting on his clothes and telling Mordred to go home. He would too. For all his faults Mordred has never forced Arthur. He could do it. He could end it right here.  
     Then Mordred’s pants are on the floor and he’s suddenly completely, breath-takingly naked, and Arthur’s mind shuts off. Mordred helps him with the button of his jeans, and Arthur wants to tell him not to, only his hands are clumsy from lack of sleep and from the rather spectacular amount of alcohol so he just bites his lip and toes off his socks.  
They stay that way for a second. Arthur almost naked and Mordred standing bare before him. Then Mordred lets out a soft, slow sound and pushes Arthur back against the bed. Arthur gets a hand in his hair and pulls him down until their bodies are pressed together. Mordred mouths at the skin at his collarbone, biting down before coming back to his mouth like he cannot breathe without it, and Arthur leans into the sharp bite of his teeth and the taste of salt on his tongue and remembers being 17 and sick with wanting.  
     Then Mordred is dragging his lips down his chest, kissing a line down the flat of his stomach, breath ghosting over his skin as he says,  
     “You’re good Arthur, you’re so, so good,” and Arthur lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and comes apart a little. And maybe it’s that, or the weight of the lie still fresh in his mouth that makes him moan and twist his fingers in Mordred’s hair. Mordred hisses a little, and his tongue flashes out to lick at the skin just above Arthur’s hip. Arthur gasps and tugs hard, pulling Mordred back up towards his mouth.  
Mordred is still looking at Arthur when he presses inside him, and Arthur bites hard at his own mouth, body tensing around the sudden sharpness. Mordred gets his hands at Arthur’s sides, gentling him with slow, soothing strokes, and Arthur breathes out hard through his nose and rocks back against him. For a second the pain holds, then Mordred eases carefully back and Arthur growls at him and locks his legs behind his back.  
     “Don’t fucking move,” he says, and Mordred laughs and kisses his jaw and says,  
     “Well that will make this difficult.”  
     Arthur scowls.  
     “You know what I meant,” he says.  
     “Do I?”Mordred asks, tone light, then he snaps his hips forward and Arthur lets out a sound he doesn’t recognize. Mordred is still talking, voice low and persistent beneath the sound of their skin sliding together. “Tell me what you want,” he says, and Arthur gasps and fists his hand in his hair and says,  
     “Don’t stop.”  
     They’re moving quickly now, bodies rocking together with enough momentum to smack the bed back against the wall and Arthur thinks quickly of his next door neighbor and decides even more quickly that he doesn’t give a fuck. Mordred’s breath is hot against his ear and his voice is raw against his skin and Arthur can hear his own name through a litany of murmured praise and he leans into the words.  
It’s over far too quickly. Or maybe it isn’t that quick at all. Arthur’s head is thrown back and his eyes are closed tight and he hears Mordred’s voice in his ear saying,  
     “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” and Arthur swears and surges forward, and says,  
     “Shit I’m going to-” and then Mordred tenses before him and Arthur sees stars.  
     He comes down slowly, settling back against the sheets and back into himself. Mordred watches him carefully, head cocked as if waiting for something and Arthur sighs and gives in and says, “Stay.”


	5. Chapter 5

      Arthur wakes up to Mordred curled around his back and a persistent pounding on the front door. He groans and rolls over. The knocking doesn’t cease. He waits five minutes, then seven, then ten before hauling himself to his feet and heading towards the door. He opens it to find Morgana draped against the door frame, looking far too composed and glamorous with her round-rimmed sunglasses perched atop her glossy hair.  
     “Hey Baby,” she purrs, white teeth stretching in a lazy smile, “How’re you doing?”  
     Arthur lets out a low moan and Morgana’s grin grows fond.  
     “Oh honey,” she sighs, “Here, I brought you coffee. This one’s- wait. No, this one’s mine.”  
     Arthur doesn’t move out of the doorway.  
     “Uh,” he says, “I can’t-”  
     Morgana glances up from the cups.  
     “What?” she gives a little flip of her hair, “We’ll make pancakes. It’ll be darling.”  
     “It’s not-” Arthur begins, and Morganna’s mouth forms into a delicate ‘o’.  
     “Ah,” she says slowly, “Do you- Arthur Pendragon have you taken a lover out of wedlock?”  
      Arthur’s stomach twists,  
      “I-” he starts, and Morganna cackles.  
      “Oh,” she breathes, “This is spectacular.”  
     Arthur flaps a hand,  
     “Quiet,” he warns.  
     Morgana pushes him off,  
     “Darling, you’re a common tart. What will the neighbors say?”  
     Arthur leans his head against the doorframe.  
     “Nothing they haven’t said before,” he informs her, and she laughs and tugs at his arm and says,  
     “Quick. Tell me everything.”

     They end up on the roof of Arthur’s apartment, smoking Morganna’s terrible menthol cigarettes and staring up at the clear sky. Arthur sips at the coffee Morgana brought him. It’s hot and it burns the back of his throat. The sounds of traffic spill from the street below them. Arthur drinks it anyways.  
     When she speaks, Morgana sounds like sunlight.  
     “So,” she says, “Who is the lucky lover?”  
     Arthur crinkles his nose at her,  
     “Ew,” he says.  
     Morgana preens,  
     “Well,” she says, “I was going to say man but you did have that bisexual phase.”  
     Arthur shoves at her shoulder,  
     “It wasn’t a phase!”  
     Morgana tuts, and sips at her coffee.  
     “So,” she says, “Tell me everything. Who is he? How did you meet him?”  
     Arthur doesn’t meet her eyes.  
     “He’s no one,” he says, “Just somebody from school.”  
     Morgana looks somewhat disappointed.  
     “Oh,” she says, “Didn’t you have fun?”  
     Arthur coughs,  
     “I had something.”    
      Morgana takes a drag of her cigarette and studies the skyline,  
      “There is a penis joke in here somewhere.”  
     “I will end you.”  
     Morgana ashes her cigarette,  
     “I’m feeling somewhat attacked,” she says, “I’ll I tried to do is bring you breakfast.”  
      They both stare at the greasy pastry bag on the ground between them. Arthur nudges the doughnuts,  
     “These are really bad for you, you know,” he tells her, and she shoots him a look and says,  
      “So is killing yourself.”  
      Arthur stares.  
      “That isn’t funny,” he says.  
      Morgana sips her coffee.  
     “I wasn’t joking.”  
      “I’m fine,” Arthur tells her.  
      Morgana takes a long drag from her cigarette, then pauses,  
     “How is cousin Mordred?” she asks, idly, and Arthur feels his mouth go dry.  
      “He’s fine,” he says automatically. He keeps his eyes trained on the roof tops in front of them. Morgana sighs,  
      “I know one is supposed to love ones family,” she muses, “but sometimes I do find myself longing for the day when he finally shuffles off this mortal coil.”  
      Arthur forces a laugh. It’s awkward, and he knows it and he thinks Morgana might know it too.  
      “Yeah,” he hears himself saying,“Yeah. He’s the worst.”  
      Morgana exhales a long column of smoke.  
      “The absolute worst,” she says easily, “He hasn’t been bothering you, has he?”  
      Arthur shakes his head.  
     “No,” he says, “He hasn’t been bothering me.”  
     “Good,” Morgana tells him, “He doesn’t have any right to your life.”  
      Arthur freezes,  
     “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
      Morgana studies him, then she looks away.  
      “Nothing,” she says, “It’s nothing. I just. You’re sure you’re alright?”  
      Arthur looks at her and remembers long back-roads and late night conversations. Remembers being young and being loved and being left behind.  
       “Yeah,” he says, “I’m alright.”  
       Morgana smiles, only slightly.

      Mordred is gone when he goes back downstairs. He doesn’t know if he is grateful.


	6. Chapter 6

     Arthur doesn’t know if he sleeps or not. He only knows that he’s tired and spent and that his sheets still smell like Mordred. He strips the bed clean and shoves his bedding into the laundry machine and lies half-naked on the bare mattress with his head resting on his arms. The morning light filters through the room’s only window and Arthur closes his eyes and doesn’t dream at all.  
All too soon there’s a knock on the door. Arthur drags himself out of bed, fumbling with his shirt and tugging his pants back on. The knocking doesn’t persist as he dresses, but it comes again as he’s crossing the tiles in the kitchen. It’s probably Morgana again, and Arthur has her name on his lips as he opens the door. It isn’t Morgana. It’s the girl from the bar with the kind eyes and gentle hands and Arthur thinks of kissing her and doesn’t know exactly why. She startles when she sees him. Then her features settle and she smiles and Arthur feels the breath go out of him.  
     “Gwen,” he says, and her smile grows.  
     “You remember,” she says, “I didn’t think you did.”  
     Arthur does remember. He’d started dating Gwen right after his mother died, slow and deep and the way he’d wanted to, cutting out of class to go to the movies, smoking joints behind her parent’s house, feeling young and effortlessly cool binding with his bright pink hair. Do what you want, Uther had said when he’d told him, turning away from Arthur with his usual disinterest, turning back to say, Keep up with your studies, frowning like an after-thought. That summer was a strange and sudden one. His mother was buried. Mordred was long gone, and Morgana had wrapped herself in cigarette smoke and black coffee and the damp bricks of her small liberal-arts college. Arthur looks at Gwen and remembers being awkward and painfully, blissfully 17 with her.  
Her hair is shorter and darker than he remembers, but now that he’s recognized her he can’t imagine ever not have knowing.  
     “Hi,” he says, a little breathless, and she smiles in the way she always has and opens her arms. Arthur steps forward into the embrace and rests his head against her shoulder. Her hair still smells like lavender. Arthur breathes into it and tries very hard not to cry. When he pulls away, Gwen is looking at him.  
     “How are you Arthur?” she says, and Arthur means to say fine but instead he says,  
     “Tired.”  
     Gwen frowns a little,  
     “You look exhausted,” she says, “Have you been sleeping?”  
     Arthur doesn’t meet her eyes,  
     “Some,” he says then, “Won’t you come in?”  
     Gwen dimples at him and steps over the doorway.  
     “I can’t stay long,” she says, “I’ve got a class I T.A. for on campus. I really have been meaning to look you up, it’s just it’s been so long and I- well, there’s no excuse for it really.”  
     “It’s good to see you,” he tells her and her smile widens.  
     “It’s good to see you too. You must be almost finished with your degree by now.”  
     Arthur ducks his head,  
     “Almost,” he tells her. She smiles again. Arthur doesn’t think he’s never seen anything so beautiful.  
Listen,” she says, “I’m sorry to just drop in like this. Morgana left her jacket at the bar and she told me I could drop it off at her hotel, but I wasn’t sure anyone would bring it to her so I just- well, I wanted to see you.”  
     Arthur blinks. Gwen hands him the sweater.  
     “Thank you,” he says, “I’m seeing her tonight. I’ll give it to her.”  
     Gwen checks her watch,  
     “Shit,” she says, “I really do have to run. But I’ll see you soon, won’t I? We’ll catch up?”  
     Arthur’s head aches.  
    “Definitely,” he says and she smiles again and is gone.  
     Arthur sags back against the wall. He hears the sound of the door closing behind him and lets out a long, slow breath, shutting his eyes. He remembers holding Gwen’s hand like it held him together. It seems like a lifetime ago.  
      Arthur actually makes it to one of his classes that day. He sits in the back of the lecture as his head throbs and his thoughts spin; taps his fingers against the desk, bites at his nails and stares out above the heads of students. He catches a flash of aqua hair and a peal of laughter like clear water. At one point the teacher says something particularly insufferable about Karl Marx and Arthur raises his hand and says something equally as insufferable about the proletariat working class. The Professor looks a little like she wants to hit him, and Arthur hears the same laugh he had before.  
After, when he’s shoving his notes back into his bag, he hears a small sound and looks up to find the blue-haired student standing before him.  
     “Um, hi,” Arthur says, and the man smiles and says,  
     “I liked what you said during the lecture.”  
     “Thanks,” Arthur tells him, “Marx is an asshole.”  
     The man laughs again, seeming somehow surprised and sticks out his hand.  
     “I’m Merlin,” he says. Arthur catches the line of a tattoo snaking around his wrist.  
     “Arthur,” he says, “Do I know you from-”  
     “We have advanced legal writing together.”  
     “Oh,” Arthur says, “Right.” His head aches.  
     Merlin studies him a moment. Then he says.  
      “Do you want to work on Case Briefs together?”  
     “What?” Arthur says, “I mean sure. Yeah. I’d like that.”  
Merlin shoves his hand into his pocket,  
     “I’ll give you my number,” he says, “hang on, give me just a sec-” then he’s pulling out his phone and adding Arthur’s name to his contacts list and Arthur feels just a little bit blindsided. “Here,” Merlin says, “I put you in as Angry Anti-Marxist. I’ll shoot you a text so you’ll have my number and-” a bell starts to toll in the distance and Merlin jumps and says, “fuck I’m late I gotta go. Hit me up,” before sweeping out the door. Arthur looks after him for a moment. Then his phone buzzes in his hand and he looks down to see an unknown number flash across the screen. He opens the text. He saves the number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm struggling to keep up with this one. Comments are appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

      Arthur goes out for a run after his class, forces his sore legs over the pavement, showers and changes and texts his father, Anything I can bring to dinner? The reply he gets is short and to the point, Merlot. 2 bottles. Your cousin is coming.” So Arthur stops at the supermarket and buys the absolutely most expensive bottles of wine he can find and, on impulse, the ingredients to make Morgana’s favorite salad, because Morgana is the type of person to have a favorite salad, and shows up on his father's doorstep only seven minutes after the time he was supposed to arrive.  
      Uther doesn’t look up when he opens the door,  
     “Bring that through to the kitchen,” he says, “your cousin is here already.”  
     “Sure,” Arthur hoists the bag up a little farther in his arms, “Has she told you how long she’s staying yet?”  
     Uther glances up from his paperwork,  
     “What?” he asks, distracted, and Arthur shifts the groceries against his hip. He can hear dishes clattering in the kitchen above the sound of Iron and Wine.  
     “Nevermind,” he says, kicking the door shut behind him. It slams just a little and Uther casts a disapproving glance at him.  
     Arthur fights the urge to roll his eyes and instead starts towards the kitchen calling,  
     “Morgana, have you decided-”  
     He goes around the corner and freezes. Mordred is standing at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up past his elbows as he chops vegetables with one of Uther’s lethally sharp knives. Arthur stares at him.  
     “What are you doing here?”  
     Mordred smiles thinly,  
     “I was invited,” he says, and Arthur shivers.  
     “You shouldn’t have come,” he says. Mordred draws the blade of the knife across the cutting board.  
     “Shouldn’t I?”  
     Arthur starts to say something else, but then Uther walks into the room and he starts and drops the bag of groceries onto the counter. Mordred turns his head to peer into it and Arthur catches the faintest hint of a bruise at the base of his throat.  
     “Where’s Morgana?”  
     Uther’s brow creases,  
     “You’re cousin informed us that she won’t be coming tonight,” he says, “Not him. The other one.”  
     “The other one,” Arthur echoes faintly. Mordred turns back to his task.  
     “Arthur,” he says quietly, “Set the table please.”  
     Uther looks between them.  
     Arthur breathes.  
     He sets the table with shaking fingers, listening to Mordred and Uther talk about business. Uther’s house is cold, but Arthur feels sweat sliding down his spine. They’re sitting down when the doorbell rings. Uther moves to get it and Mordred turns to Arthur and says, very softly,  
     “You weren’t there when I woke up.”  
     Arthur unfolds his napkin.  
     “You weren’t there when I got back.”  
     “I had an early meeting,” Mordred says, “Sue me.”  
     Arthur starts to say something else, but then Mordred’s eyes shift up and away from his face. Arthur hears the sound of the door closing and turns around just as Morgana sweeps into the room. Mordred’s gaze settles on her.  
     “Morgana,” he says gracefully, “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you tonight.”  
     “Oh,” Morgana says, shrugging out of her jacket, “I moved some things around. You know Mordred, family first.”  
     “Family first,” Mordred agrees demurely. Arthur’s face flames. Morgana slips into the seat beside him.  
     “I am surprised to see you, love,” she presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek, “I thought you might be with your new, uh, friend tonight.”  
     Arthur blushes,  
     “It’s not like that,” he says, very quickly.  
     Mordred raises an eyebrow,  
     “Not like what?” he asks.  
     Arthur stares at his plate.  
     “Nothing,” he says, “Forget it.”  
     Mordred picks up his fork, toying with the pasta on his plate,  
     “It’s clearly something,” he says softly. Arthur feels their legs brush beneath the table.  
     “Nothing,” he grits out.  
     Morgana is frowning ever so slightly over to him. Then she sighs and shakes her head.  
     “Mordred,” she says, “Don’t be an ass.”  
     Mordred turns to her,  
     “How’s business?” he asks.  
     Morgana purses her lips,  
     “It’s fine,” she says cooly, “How’s being a vapid snake?”  
     “Morgana,” Uther warn s.  
     Mordred’s eyes flick to Arthur,  
     “It has it’s moments,” he says calmly. Under the table, Arthur feels Mordred’s hand ghost across his thigh. He stares straight ahead, fingers tightening around his fork. Uther sips obliviously from his wine glass.  
     “Arthur,” he says, and Arthur freezes, “How are your studies?”  
      Arthur forces himself to stay still.  
     “They’re fine,” he says evenly, “We’re about to start midterms.”  
     Uther observes him carefully.  
     “And you’re keeping up?” he says, “You’re not getting… distracted?”  
     Arthur shakes his head,  
     “No,” he says, “I’m not getting distracted.”  
     “So,” Morgana interjects pointedly, “How’s the benefit coming?”  
     “It’s fine,” Uther informs her coolly, “I take it you’ll be in attendance?”  
     Morgana smiles,  
     “I wouldn’t miss it,” she tells him. Arthur feels Mordred’s hand move further up his thigh, and he shoves his chair away from the table. Morgana looks at him a little funny, “You’re finished?” she asked, “You’ve hardly eaten anything.”  
     Arthur doesn’t meet her eye,  
     “Late lunch at school today,” he says, and retreats back into the kitchen.  
     Arthur moves to the sink without really seeing it. The water runs cold over his hands, and he twists the faucet towards hot. His father and Morgana are still talking at the table, and he listens and doesn’t as he slowly starts to wash his dishes. He feels rather than sees Mordred enter the room. There’s a brush of air at the small of his back, a soft press of fingers against his skin, and the glass he’s holding slips and shatters in his hands. Arthur stares at his palm for a second before it really registers. But then it hurts and he’s bleeding and-  
     “Fuck!”  
     “Arthur.” Mordred is beside him. Arthur hisses and breathes through his nose because it actually does hurt quite a lot. Mordred’s elbow is brushing his and he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s wearing a sports bra instead of his binder.  
     “Here,” Mordred says, “Let me.”  
     He takes Arthur's hand gently in his own, extracting the glass from Arthur’s palm before wrapping a towel around it. There’s a first-aid kit beneath sink, and Mordred reaches for it with an ease that does not betray the fact that it’s been five years since he stepped foot in the house. Arthur watches as Mordred carefully winds gauze around his hand.  
     “I remember when you fell of your bike and fractured your wrist,” Mordred says softly, “and I was the only one you’d let drive you to the emergency room.”  
      “I was 12,” Arthur says, “You had a convertible.” He tries not to wince at the sting. Mordred strokes his fingers a little, and        Arthur wants to pull away but doesn’t. In the other room, Uther and Morgana have fallen silent.  
Mordred finishes with the gauze, then he leans forward carefully and bites the skin beneath Arthur’s ear. There are footsteps from the dining room and Arthur shivers and pulls away just as Uther steps into the room. He glances between them again, eyebrows knitted. Then he says,  
     “You’re not fighting, are you?” Arthur turns red.  
     “No Sir,” he says, quickly, “We’re not fighting.”  
     “Good,” Uther tells him, “Keep it that way.”  
     Mordred keeps his eyes fixed on Arthur,  
     “I’ll finish with this,” he says, “Go compose yourself.”  
     Mordred turns back to the sink and Arthur escapes into the hallway. The light is on in the bathroom and he can see a shadow beneath the door. Arthur knocks softly. Morgana’s voice sounds through the wood.  
     “I’m decent,” she says, “come through.”  
     Arthur eases open the bathroom door. Morgana is leaning against the wall by the toilet, holding a joint in one hand and illicitly blowing smoke out of the open window. She looks up when he enters, elegant brows drawing together,  
     “What’s wrong?” she says, “You look a little flushed.”  
     Arthur blushes,  
     “It’s nothing,” he says, “Just Mordred being… Mordred.”  
     Morgana leans forward and blows out smoke.  
     “Wretched man,” she says, “I remember there was that one summer where he was remotely tolerable but everything after that has just been dreadful.”  
     Arthur swallows,  
     “Gwen came to see me,” he says, “I have your jacket in my car.”  
     Morgana takes a careful hit,  
     “Oh that’s right!” she says, “Thank you darling.”  
     Arthur waits a minute, then he says,  
      “You’re staying at a hotel?”  
      Morgana looks out the window for a beat. Then she says,  
     “Yes.”  
      Arthur stares at her,  
     “You’re not living at home?”  
      Morgana shifts her weight,  
     “Things are… delicate at the company at the moment. Your father and I are not exactly on the best of terms.”  
      Arthur feels a little blindsided,  
      “But you always stay at the house when you’re here.”  
      Morgana smiles at him,  
     “Not this time kiddo.” She extends her hand and offers him the joint. Arthur takes it, if only to have something to do with his hands. He inhales a little too swiftly and ends up coughing smoke. Morgana rubs his back sympathetically. “You’re sure you’re alright?” she says, eyeing him critically. Arthur tries very hard not to blush.  
      “I’m fine,” he says, “Just tired.” There’s a pause as Morgana takes another hit. Then Arthur is bending his head down and pulling smoke into his lungs. He exhales carefully, the memory of Mordred’s mouth on his skin sending shivers up his spine. His head is starting to feel rather lovely and numb and he turns towards Morgana to find her looking at him once more. There’s something about her eyes that makes him ask,  
      “Why is Mordred here?”  
     Morgana pauses. Then she says,  
     “It seems that Mordred is making a reckless grab for power.”  
     Arthur studies her.  
     “How?”  
     Morgana sighs,  
     “He’s refuting my position as rightful heir,” she says, “you know, boring stuff.”  
     “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
      “I can handle it,” Morgana says, “Do you wanna talk or do you wanna get high?”  
     Arthur laughs a little,  
     “I want to get high,” he tells her, and she passes him the joint and says,  
     “Good boy.”  
     Morgana settles herself cross-legged against the cabinet and Arthur lays on the tiles with his head in her lap. Her fingers card gently through his hair,  
     “I remember when this was violet,” she says, and Arthur says,  
     “I remember when you had an undercut.”  
     Morgana giggles,  
     “And we went to that terrible festival with the electronic music and Mordred got stung by a bee and we had to go the emergency room.”  
Arthur smiles.  
     “One of our many misadventures.”  
     Morgana sighs.  
     “Whatever happened to him I wonder.”  
     Arthur shakes his head,  
     “I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment to keep me going y'all


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